


Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Bartender

by Scandiaca



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, UST, bartending, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scandiaca/pseuds/Scandiaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“People don’t have archenemies,” John stated, pushing out two Vodka-Energy, a Bloody Mary and three Long Island Ice Tea for the group of party goers right in front of him. Bonging the purchase, he watched Sherlock stir a Grateful Dead, the shaker nearly blurring in his hands. </p><p>While he liked his women strong minded but sweet, he loved his men tall and skilled. Not the first time since his sudden “employment”, the doctor contemplated possible complications of working alongside Sherlock Holmes, consulting bartender. </p><p>Bartender AU with Johnlock and Mystrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the brilliant the-nerdinator.  
> All mistakes left are my own.

John didn’t fancy himself much of a drinker. He was English and served in the army, so the doctor knew his way around a good buzz. However, never in a million years would he have seen bartending as a possible carrier path. That summed up his life pretty accurately, Watson mused. Not in a million years would he have thought he'd lose his parents while still in uni, his sister to alcohol or his job with just one bullet to the shoulder. And now? Now he was invalided, back in London with a laughable army pension and nobody to turn to but his alcoholic sister. If life was a box of chocolates, he wanted a bloody different box. Harry had, out of the greatness of her heart no doubt, suggested he try bartending at “Baker Street”-- a very successful bar in Central London. “You sure know how to mix a stiff one!” was at best a dubious compliment coming from an alcoholic. Although a far cry from ideal, this job was John’s best bet in affording his own place, which was mandatory. If the two siblings continued to cohabitate, either Harry or he himself would stop breathing before long.

Upon entering the bar, John was pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t been there before, seeing as the doors of the place opened about two years ago. The army doctor had feared it to be either pretentiously modern or pretentiously old, but neither was the case. A big bar on the long side of the room was built from solid wood, but the wall behind it shone from modern indirect lighting, giving the whole place a warm glow without looking antique. It felt much like a well-used living room, a little cluttered, some old and odd pieces, but still modern in all the aspects that mattered. A small stage was set up facing away from the door, but it was still too early for any acts to be playing. Even though it was only 7pm, the bar was packed with people of all kinds of backgrounds.

John made his way over to the counter, his glance sliding over the subtly highlighted liquor bottles until it fell on the bartender. That man was a sight to behold! Tall and lean, his pale skin glowed under the indirect lighting from above, as his body-lines blurred with the bottles behind him. The tall stranger was the only bartender on duty. Apparently “Baker Street” really _was_ in desperate need of an extra pair of hands. The man might be lanky, but he was on fire; spinning bottles -- not without artistic appeal, but clearly perfected for maximum efficiency.

Currently, there was a crowd of girls gathering to get drinks, and the bartender built them in 5 seconds tops, never mixing less than two drinks or holding less than two bottles at the same time. Strangely, none of the female customers appeared to have ordered. They waited to catch the bartender’s eye, and a moment later had a drink in their hands. Could they all be regulars? The man behind the work bench fixated on them, but not a single line of dialogue was spoken. His facial expression, half hidden behind an unruly mob of black curls, nearly screamed “bored”.

As the girls left, not without longing glances over the counter, John could see the bartender approaching. As the doctor tucked away his phone, a long-drink glass was placed in front of him. He had not seen the bartender mix it, and the brown color could hide anything from rum to a sugary cocktail.

“Oh no, I'm sorry, just a beer for me, please,” John apologized, pushing the drink back over. The bartender, dressed in a very tight purple shirt and suit trousers, gave him a small glare.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man suddenly asked, leaning over and sliding the drink right back into John’s space. The doctor blinked, baffled by the question, answering more out of habit.

“Afghanistan… how did you…?”

A sly grin crossed the bartender’s face as he pointedly looked John up and down, before settling his eyes on the drink between them. “You are an army veteran invalided back home after attaining a psychosomatic limp. Your brother is an alcoholic whose apartment you are currently staying at. You came here for the open bartender position. I know enough to make you exactly what you need right now, so do drink up,” he spit out like the flood of words could not be detained any longer. For a man who had just mixed drinks for half an hour in absolute silence, he sure had grown talkative.

John blinked again, half ready to make a beeline for the door and walk away, but the eccentric guy had gotten too many things right. This whole situation was bloody weird, but damn if this guy could dump John’s whole life story in public without an explanation.

“How could you have possibly-” the army doctor started, but once back in the land of the talking, his opponent seemed determined to interrupt him every single time.

“Your stance is clearly military, squared shoulders, high chin and straight back. The limp in your left leg is pretty severe, but you have yet to sit down or even lean on your cane. A fairly new injury and one you wish to ignore, then. Psychosomatic.

“You came straight to the bar, but instead of looking at the girls you looked at me. Gay then? Not necessarily. While you were watching me, you paid attention to my hands, not to more prominent features. It’s the craft that interests you, though now you wanted to order a beer. Combined with the fact that there was an ad in yesterday’s paper, you are here for the job.

“Now to your sibling. The phone in your hand is a fairly new model and gadget heavy, not something an army veteran in need of a job would buy. Present, then. The scratches say second hand, a young person’s phone. And those scratches around the docking station…” the mad man paused shortly, prolonging his reveal for dramatic effect. “Never see a sober person with them, never see a drunk’s without them.”

The good doctor was gripping the countertop with his free hand, staring at the rambling bartender with wide eyes. He took in the smug grin, the glowing blue-gray eyes and the long pale neck. When did John fall through the rabbit hole into wonderland, where the Cheshire Cat and the Mad Hatter had fused into one brilliantly mad being? There was simply no other reason he could think of for such a human to exist. John’s heart was pounding. He felt a small line of sweat trickle down his neck. And suddenly, he felt gloriously alive.

“That was… amazing!” he stated, still trying to wrap his head around the whole situation.

For a moment, the other man seemed truly perplexed. It was, in John’s humble opinion, a very adorable look on him, but also utterly ridiculous. The same guy, who had just shown an amazing ability of deduction and rudeness, seemed suddenly baffled by a simple compliment.

Before John could thoroughly enjoy the perplexed expression on his opponent’s face, they were disrupted by a loud cloud of noise entering through the door. The army doctor counted about 15 men, clearly soldiers on short leave, closely followed by an already loud and merry bachelorette party. Bloody hell! There was no way the bartender could handle this bag of fleas and keep up with drink orders from the other customers alone. John sent the black haired man a pitying smile, subconsciously squaring his shoulders again for the oncoming storm. Suddenly, there was a strong hand gripping his wrist. As he spun back around to the bar, the bartender was leaning half way over the work bench, eyes hard and determined.

“What’s your name?” he asked, eyes darting between the bar, John, and the approaching doom.

“John Watson,” the doctor answered, watching the new herd of customers head straight for the bar.

“Well, John, get behind the bar and help me!” the man demanded, signaling over next to him. Without even realizing it, John was already halfway there before the reality of the situation started settling in.

“This is madness, I don’t even work here,” he exclaimed, anyhow already rummaging through the piled up glasses and tools. Alright, clean bar mats, a full ice box, speed rack fully stacked with all the common liquors. Without a second thought, he changed the first lineup to vodka, gin and rum, as his teacher and he himself preferred old-school.

“You are going to,” the man next to him simply stated, handing him a towel and a chip card for the cashier. John had never worked a bloody bar cashier before, but it seemed straight forward. The well was already set up, but the system seemed almost set to fail. John kept an eye on the crowed, and changed the bottles around as much as he remembered.

“I don’t even know the menu!”

By now, the doctor was simply arguing to calm his nerves. He had decided to go along with this madness almost as soon as the request had been stated. As he looked up, their impending doom had nearly made it through to the bar.

“Any good at mixing strong drinks?” his new colleague asked, standing almost close enough to brush against John’s side. God, this guy was tall.

“Yes, very,” the answer came, without hesitation. There was a reason he came here for a bartending job, and it had much to do with him mixing drinks while in the army. When alcohol was rare, you had to make do with what was there. And he was good at thinking on his feet. Now, by the hand motion timing he had seen from the other, the house poured one and a quarter. Which was a great middle for the customer, but another thing to mind for the bartender.

“Then keep these soldiers out of my way. I will deal with the bachelorettes and their garish cocktails!” came the prompt order. Well, he knew his way around army drinks, but as John glanced on the pinned up cocktail list, his hopes fell. What were those bloody things? He would be happy to just get the pouring right without measuring cups. At least the garnish station was standard issue.

“And the rest?” he asked, motioning over to the room in general. Well, at least they still used bar spoons here. A pretty nostalgic thing, as everybody and their mother nowadays wanted everything shaken, not stirred. Bloody Bond.

“Well, Dr. John Watson. You invaded Afghanistan. This should not pose a problem.”

Cheeky bastard. John had half a mind to leave him alone to fend those hordes off by himself. But while half of him was bloody annoyed, the other half was buzzing with adrenalin. God, how he had missed that!

“That wasn’t me alone! And at least give me your bloody name, so I don’t have to throw ice cubes at your head!”

As he looked over, the bartender gave him a slow, but bright grin. It lit up the man’s whole face and made John’s breath catch.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, consulting bartender, the only one in the world!”

 

* * *

 The soldiers were pretty easy to handle. Scotch over, one set of Vodka shots, and back to scotch. No mixes. Those guys seemed to live on scotch and foul jokes. The only slight difficulty lay in the lemon twists, but the guy who had taught him years back made sure John knew his way around some old school gems. It made him miss the army.

Next to him, Sherlock was back to being the silent mixing-guru. Limbs flaring everywhere, he filled the girls up with candy-sweet sugar cocktails as they cooed over his shirt and skin and hair. Apparently, this was what the tall man did best: deducing the likes and dislikes of a person within seconds, and then mixing something to make the customer swoon.

As the guys were busy inhaling their liquor, he took a careful sip of the drink Sherlock had prepared earlier on. It was dark and smoothing, rum rolling around on his tongue, rounded with the flavor of coconut and cranberries. This git was a bloody genius. As he looked over, Sherlock gave him a self-satisfied smirk. He was good, and damn if he didn’t know it, too.

Shaking his head, John dived under the counter for some more scotch. His customers would be ordering more soon, and the open bottle was nearing its end. So far, so good. There was just one slight problem. Under the bar, the place clearly intended for scotch bottles, was empty. Well fuck. Making his way over to Sherlock, he pulled the other man aside.

“We have another problem. There is only one bottle of scotch left!” he whispered in the bartender’s ear, watching in close up as the man’s face fell.

“Anderson! Bloody idiot!” Sherlock bellowed, kicking an empty canister under the counter. Apparently, another bartender – Anderson -- had opened up the bar today. When Sherlock came in as assistance during happy hour, the two of them had had a row and Anderson left in a huff. Now, they were nearly out of scotch with a whole group of thirsty soldiers waiting. Sherlock cursed a blue streak, but had his own orders piling up.

That left John to his own devices. He had to think of something, and fast. Surveying his arsenal, the army doctor stood up straight and went to work. Moments later, he put a line of drinks down in front of the men.

“Here you go, fellows, a round on the house. Drink up, if you can stomach a ‘Three Continent Watson’.” The soldiers eyed their glasses for a moment, but soon knocked back the liquor without much fuss. At least, they tried. After swallowing the first gulp, most of them had to sit down their glasses and grasp for air. For a moment, the group was shocked into dead silence, while Watson hid his grin behind an order of beer.

“Bloody hell, you know how to knock a soldier flat. Keep them coming! Who’s with me?” one of them boomed finally, slapping his thigh. The group resolved in good-natured laughter, and not a single one demanded another scotch.

The drink was one of John’s specialties. As a doctor, he knew which kinds of alcohol and liquid blended together got into the bloodstream the fastest. Adding a bit of a rough edge, using minimal amounts of alcohol to receive a relatively painless buzz. He really did know how to knock a soldier flat. And even if the guys didn’t know, they would thank him tomorrow. John was never fond of hangover-baits.

Suddenly, there was a hand snatching away one of his ready-made ‘Watsons’. The pale hand belonged to Sherlock, who was knocking back the drink faster than John could warn him. As soon as the glass was empty, the bartender swayed slightly, closing his eyes and gripping John’s shirt for support. The army man grinned, holding his colleague upright. The shirt material under his fingers was unbelievably soft. He was nearly scared the whole thing would rip apart. Not that the crowd would have minded. Him included.

“Bloody… How much liquor is in there?” Sherlock coughed, eying the bottles on John’s well with a small glare.

“Next to none,” the new bartender whispered, winking at the other’s baffled expression.

After Sherlock had verified the low alcohol expense of the drink, and whispered a devious price point into his ear, they handled the crowd surprisingly well. Now, Sherlock was without doubt a master of his craft, and John could hold his own with traditional drinks, but they would have drowned without teamwork. They fit. Somehow, between Sherlock’s flaring limbs and John’s occasional ignorance, they held their ground.

 

* * *

 

As the true rush hour rolled in, and the soldiers went on bar hopping, the two of them were joined by a waitress and a cook. The former was called Donovan and had some kind of history with Sherlock. Her tone was frosty at best, but she had a way with the customers. The latter was a sweet girl named Molly, who introduced herself while deboning a chicken. A whole chicken. Head an all. Both of them were a bit surprised to see John behind the bar, but not for the reason he thought they would.

“You are working with the freak? For three hours now, without an incident? Stop pulling my leg. Nobody works with the freak.” Donovan sneered, after she had successfully cornered him in storage. “Do not help him. The guy will get us all fired one day.”

Molly on the other hand seemed quite smitten by Sherlock, and John debated whether there was history there too, or just an unfulfilled crush. Whatever their connection, Molly was a mean cook and kept the customers both well fed and thirsty, the trademark value of good bar food.

As Donovan came back with a drink order containing the “T-Rex Hopper”, John got a firsthand taste of Sherlock’s _special_ work ethic.

“I don’t do Anderson’s idiot drinks. And your ridiculous effort in making them popular with the customers is just as foolish,” the Bartender drawled and went back to serving the happily drunk bachelorette group. As Donovan took off with a _grasshopper_ and chips, Sherlock seemed weary.

“Today is one of those nights, eh?” John tried, passing over their own order of (decidedly less salty) chips. His colleague picked at the bowl absentmindedly.

“Could be worse… Though this seems like the kind of night for my archenemy. To annoy me is his favorite pastime. Well, after stuffing his face,” Sherlock muttered, cutting lemons and orange slices in a few free minutes.

John blinked, convinced he hadn’t heard the other properly over the upbeat after-work music. The other for sure was an eccentric man, not easy to get along with and ridiculously easy to annoy. But an archenemy? All the new bartender could picture was a middle aged movie villain stroking a white cat.

“People don’t have archenemies,” he stated, pushing out two vodka-energy’s, a bloody mary and three Long Island ice teas for the group of party goes right in front of him. Bonging the purchase, he watched Sherlock stir a grateful dead, the shaker nearly blurring in his hands. While he liked his women strong minded but sweet, he loved his men tall and skilled. Not the first time since his sudden “employment”, the doctor contemplated possible complications of working alongside Sherlock Holmes, consulting bartender. However, he was not a bloody teenager anymore. They could behave like adults. Well, from what John had seen so far, he would behave like a grown up, and put Sherlock on time-out if necessary.

“What do people have, then?” Sherlock finally asked, voice indicating how bored he already was with their conversation. Just as John was about to let the matter drop, a fresh group of university students made their way over to the bar. Seeing as the new customers seemed good-natured enough and had heard at least the very basic of their discussion, the army doctor decided to have a bit of fun.

“I don’t know, girlfriends..?” John said, raising his voice over the still quiet music and winking at one of the girls. She giggled and raised her pina colada. Hearing Sherlock just snort like a spoiled brat, he grinned.

“Or boyfriends…?” This time his eyes rested on a young student in a screaming red blazer. As he gave the man his sea breeze, they shared a leering smile. Behind him, by the sound of it, a “gorilla punch” got a very thorough shaking.

“Not really my area,” was the only verbal answer Sherlock gave as he passed him on his way to the till. However, John distinctively noticed the other’s body brushing against his, even though there was more than enough space behind the counter.

“Neither of them?” John pushed with barely hidden amusement. For good measure, he raised his right eyebrow and heard a few customers snicker.

“I consider myself married to my work,” the consulting bartender stated with a pitch perfect intonation of “above all this foolish emotions” arrogance. John might have let it go at this point, but Donovan pitched in with her own two cents, dropping them another large table order.

“Well, I am part of your work, and you sure as hell aren’t married to me!” the waitress made clear, getting a drunken giggle from the long lasting bachelorette group. John had to bite his cheek as Sherlock looked positively horrified by the mere thought, empty shaker frozen in place above the filled cocktail glass. The black haired git could be an insufferable know-it-all, but damn if he didn’t have his adorable moments too. Right now, Sherlock really looked like he required a full bucket of brain bleach. Which, considering whatever ugly history he had with waitress Donovan, might even be justified.

John, noble as he was, thought this to be too good of an opportunity to pass up on.

“Your loss! Drink up, honey!” he cooed, pressing a “Three Continent Watson” in the unsuspecting man’s hand. John hid his face in mid-turn as their fingers brushed, but still felt the spark all the way down to his toes. ‘Teenagers, Watson!’ he thought, trying to snap out of it. This was about ten kinds of a bad idea.

At least the customers hollered, obviously entertained and ready to order. John found it quite puzzling, but their tips nearly doubled after that. So did, for some inexplicable reason, the women ordering.

 

 

* * *

 

No matter how long John watched Sherlock do his “deduction” bartending, he never stopped to be amazed by it. Most of the time, he couldn’t even begin to grasp how he worked out what a customer wanted. He just sat back and watched the faces of strangers light up because apparently, Holmes could do no wrong. That was all well, until a couple of guys came in, landing on Sherlock’s side of the bar. The black haired man took one look, and proceeded to mix them, in John’s opinion, a girly cocktail. The men were skeptical at best, but took one sip anyway. John watched in fascination as they stared at each other, then Sherlock, then their drink, before resolving in good natured laughter. Now, that was just too much. How the hell had his colleague figured that one out? Sending Sherlock a puzzled look, he went back to work. A few moments later, he felt a strong hand wrapping around his middle from behind. A tall body pressed against his back, and all John could do was to set down the shaker for a moment. Christ, this guy was lethal.

“They are brown, just back from holiday, shirts and shoes indicate cruising liner. The one on the left even had a key chain with the logo sticking out of his pocket. Carnival Cruise. This liner has a particular cocktail called “kiss on the lips”. Most passengers try to recreate it as soon as they get home. Very few can.” a dark voice whispered in his ear, hot breath making goosebumps appear on his neck.

“Brilliant,” he answered, twisting his neck to give the other an open smile.

John leaned back ever so slightly, as a group of women giggled in front of them. Suddenly aware of their “audience”, he took his shaker back in hand and busied himself. The body behind John stayed a few moments longer, before Sherlock too, returned to his well.

As they were back to their respective stations, and John did decidedly not steal secret glances at the fellow bartender, another man made his way straight from the door to their bar. His face looked aggravated, and the army doctor mentally prepared himself for a trouble maker. The silver haired man seemed to be in his forties, and gave John an annoyed stare, before focusing on Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” he huffed, sounding like a scolding parent. “What have you done now? Where is Anderson?”

Sherlock seemed decidedly nonplussed. While sliding two Godiva Chocolate Martinis over to an obviously newlywed couple, he mumbled something about dinosaur drinks and general idiocy. The argument had obviously not been a new one, as the stranger interrupted Sherlock about halfway through.

“And who is this guy? Why is he tending my bar?”

John looked up sheepishly, feeling himself fall back into soldier habits. He straightened his back, folded his hands behind him and waited for the dismissal. Well, so much for working here. Sherlock got him fired before he had even started. Yet, before John could claim defeat and move around the bar, Sherlock moved beside him and laid one hand on his shoulder. It almost felt like a claiming gesture.

“He is called John and he is working here. You need an another bartender, Lestrade! And I refuse to work with anyone else. They are all idiots. John is too, but he isn’t annoying.” the man huffed, and the army doctor couldn’t decide why this dubious praise made him blush.

Lestrade rightfully gave him a puzzled look, but in contrast to the other employees, he seemed to get over the shock of having someone work beside Sherlock quite fast. After taking one last look around the full and buzzing bar, he moved closer.

“What do you know about mixing drinks?” the owner asked, just raising one eyebrow at the hand still resting on John’s shoulder. The new bartender gave a quick nod, sliding a drink he had just made across the counter.

In his defense, Lestrade didn’t cough or put down the glass after he had taken the first gulp. But his watering eyes and rigid posture were more than enough for John to grin.

“Bloody hell, how much alcohol is in there?” the hard breathing man finally asked after his glass was empty. Before John could answer, he heard an amused Sherlock steal his earlier line.

“Next to none.” the black-haired bartender exclaimed, leaning over John’s shoulder over the counter as well. Lestrade looked from one of them to the other, his puzzled expression dropping in favor of a strong, no bullshit type of look. He was, without a doubt, a bar owner and knew his way around know-it-alls as well as trouble makers. Yet John had met his fair share of hard-asses as well, and knew how to hold his own. The two man stared at each other, Lestrade still on the fence about the whole situation and the bartender calm but firm in his stance.

“Alright, you're hired. Takes a bigger man than me to keep that one in line, anyhow. Hope you are up for it!” the silver-haired owner gave him a quick nod and after that disappeared into his office upstairs.


	2. The art of stirring a Martini

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta is the brilliant the-nerdinator.  
> All mistakes left are my own.

Truth to be told, John was very happy to see his first shift at “Baker Street” end. He felt rather knackered by four am, and it was already five by the time they cleaned up the shift’s mess. Donovan and Molly left after cleaning the room and kitchen, Sherlock was busy taking inventory in the storage room and he himself took one last sweep around the bar. Lestrade would be in any minute with the night’s cash check.

Just as he was swiping his bar mop over the counter, folding it neatly out of habit after every swipe, the entrance door burst open. In walked, John swore to God, a character straight out of Jeeves & Wooster. Bespoke, three-piece suit, shined shoes, and an equally luxurious umbrella. However, they were closed, and he would not reopen the bar for a random posh suit.

“Sorry, but we are already-” the bartender tried to reason, squaring his shoulders. Thanks to Sherlock, who had commented on his “Army Power Stance” in a rather mocking manner, John now noticed a lot more about his own habits.

“Closed. Yes, rather obvious, even to the untrained eye. However, I can assure you, this bar caters to me at any chosen time of the day,” the unknown man stated. In one fluid motion, the posh guy sat his umbrella against the bar. With a very doubting look addressed to the solid bar stools, he heaved a sophisticated sigh. John was torn. He didn’t know enough about “Baker Street” to verify the claim. But even if it didn’t check out, John would get the satisfaction of throwing this guy out on his bespoke clad arse.

“Well, then,” the bartender invited, putting down a napkin on the counter next to the umbrella handle. John took a small satisfaction in the surprised quirk of the mouth his new customer couldn’t hide. It reminded him of Sherlock, this suppressed portrayal of emotion. And, as the man sat down, the army doctor took note of the hard eyes, well kept red hair and very prominent nose. Sherlock would know what to make of all this, but to John the guy just screamed posh git.

“What can I get you, Sir?” he offered, after the other man finally sat down.

“Martini, if you could,” the red haired stranger ordered. In the same breath, he leaned forward, folding his hands in a observing motion under his chin. John felt the other’s smile to be very condescending, but was more than determined to get another surprised look out of him.

At first, he put a Martini glass on the table, filling it up to the brim with ice. Next came a long drink glass, half way full with ice this time. After he added the proper amount of gin, the bartender poured only a few drops of vermouth on top. John saw another small twitch out of the corner of his eyes, and suppressed a grin, as he reached for the bar spoon.

“A dying craft,” the stranger mentioned, his hand motioning to the utensil.

“A necessary tool.” John stated, stirring the liquid exactly 20 times. Throwing ice out of the now chilled martini glass, he put a strainer on the mixed liquid and poured the drink in one swift motion. Finally, he slid an olive in. Now, the stranger had a tradition martini to drink, and John went back to cleaning the bar. However, his customer had other ideas.

“What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?” At this question, John raised an eyebrow, but only paused in polishing glasses briefly.

“He is my colleague,” he answered vaguely. The conversation turned less and less likely to end well.

“But Dr. Watson, former Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, how many colleagues do you think he has?” the posh suit drawled, condescending smile in place. Everything about this man screamed superiority and well backed up arrogance. His customer was without doubt the kind of person rebellious characters loved to hate, uncertain people feared and power-hungry players wanted on their side. John was none of these. Right now, he was getting sick of people poking his life story with a stick.

“Sir, I feel like you came here for something other than a drink. You better speak up quickly, so I can refuse. So we can go back to pretending you are ever going to touch that martini,” he answered with that kind of deadly calm usually reserved for cold desert nights and patrols.

“Very well. For some reason, Sherlock seems quite taken by the idea of having you around. I am capable of making such a without doubt straining situation worth your while.” Shark smile. Full turn of the umbrella handle. “All I require in return are some minor updates on his... state of mind.” Now the stranger’s voice was definitely patronizing. A man used to getting what he wanted, even before asking.

John, on the other hand, was used to acting, instinctual and purest to his morals. With one swift motion he took the previously offered Martini away and dumped its content into the drainer. The napkin followed suit into the garbage.

“But I haven’t mentioned a number yet.” John didn’t know if his move had surprised the man at all. Maybe yes, and he had missed it while cleaning out the glass. Maybe not, then he would prefer not knowing. However, this had gone on way too long. Just as the annoying sod started pulling out a chequebook, John spoke up.

“And I haven’t kicked you out yet, let me correct that!” he stated, already making his way around the bar again. Quite frankly, he had no clue what would have happened. Or what he would have done once he reached the customer. Fortunately for them both, the confrontation never came.

* * *

“Mycroft! You are ruining a day that is only 5 hours old!” Sherlock shouted, door still swinging loudly against the wall as he passed through to the bar floor. His face set in a scowl, the bartender stepped up to the customer, his open disdain rivalling that towards Donovan. The customer on the other hand had a nearly gleeful expression on his face. John hardly ever wanted to punch someone as hard as he did right now. The bartender walked up next to his colleague, standing maybe a little closer than strictly necessary. The stranger lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow. His smile turned downright gleeful for a moment. The worst thing, however, was Sherlock twitching slightly, as if John had made a grave mistake. Maybe he had.

“Sherlock, I see you gained a new _pal_ ,” the man all but cooed, as he stood up and leaned on his umbrella. The way he let this last word drift into the room between them, it meant anything but. John could feel his neck heat under the collar. Was he that obvious? Had Sherlock noticed, too? If he had, there seemed to be something else on his mind. After another grim leer directed at the stranger, the bartender turned around face John.

“I told you it would be a perfect night for my archenemy. Together with bats and hellhounds he rises from his coffin to ruin my day.”

John raised his eyebrows and tried to assess the new situation. Did Sherlock want his help throwing this guy out? That would be very satisfying.

“Stop your childish antics; you know how it always upset mummy.”

Now the army doctor’s head whipped around to stare at Mycroft...Holmes? Had he just heard...? Were those two idiots serious?

“Mummy?”John felt nervous giggles crawl up his throat.

“Mother, our mother,” Sherlock all but drawled, eyes still leering at his brother like the man might spontaneously combust if the bartender just tried hard enough.

“So you are...?” Now, John already knew both brothers hated repetition with a vengeance, but the whole situation called for some clarification. And somewhere a terrified part of his brain screamed: “Two, there are two of them!”

“Brothers, yes, astonishing deduction Dr. Watson,” Mycroft stated, back again to presenting John with the most condescending glance he had ever received. The bartender should bottle those looks, and sell them to show judges for money. But before he could go back to Plan A, as in “an arsehole gets thrown out on his bespoke clad bollocks”, Sherlock regained his attention. And was it just his own imagination, or did the black haired man indeed move even closer?

“What did he annoy you with?”

His entire existence? Sherlock’s glance was something John knew he would never get tired of receiving, even if they had only known each other for a few hours. The bartender just looked at him like... he was not the boring, no-use war invalid John actually was. ‘That just begs the question,’ the doctor mused, ‘when that would stop.’

“Offered me money for spying on you,” John answered, mostly because even after everything else Mycroft had done to piss him off so far, this stuck out as the most offensive. To his surprise, Sherlock didn’t even bat an eye to that.

“Did you agree?” he just demanded, focus still fixed on John, even though he could hear his brother huffing behind them.

“No,” John chuckled, the question nearly as ridicules in his mind as the proposition had been. But, for what he knew, the short, but eye reaching grin he got as appraise from Sherlock made the whole thing worthwhile. All was well for a moment, until a polite cough reminded them of their reluctant customer.

“Shame, we could have split the fee,” Sherlock added, as he was turning around to face his brother again, gifting Mycroft with a glare that could probably refreeze the melting ice-caps.

“I will keep that in mind,”

God, now John really felt like a teenager again., and his crush had somehow asked him to the summer ball. Bollocks, Watson, keep it together, will you? As he too, turned towards the decidedly older brother, John caught the end of a sardonic smile directed at Sherlock. And there went his good mood. But instead of shouting abuse at his brother, as he probably longed to do, Sherlock just marched right over to the bar.

“Sit back down again, Mycroft. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can leave,” the Bartender basically spat out as he pulled down a big cocktail glass and started mixing.

“Always so eager,” Mycroft responded with an aura of superiority only posh British gits managed with quite such nonchalance. Nevertheless, he sat down again on one of the bar stools, watching his little brother prepare a mixer and various fruits.

“Take care not to burst a seam. How is the diet?” John could hear Sherlock ask, as the doctor made his own way up to the bar. Leaning against the counter, he tried to wrap his head around this sibling relationship; and whether or not strangling Mycroft would get him hunted down by some government agency. Really, that suit just screamed Whitehall.

“Fine.”

Well, somebody was touchy all of a sudden, John thought to himself and caught Sherlock’s glance. They shared another quick grin. Oh, he could get used to this.

The blonde bartender made his way around the counter, busying himself with minor cleaning and rearranging as his colleague put a mixer on the mat. Sherlock poured white rum and Malibu in the mixer, adding frozen strawberries before starting the machine. The smooth but thick substance found its way into a tall cocktail glass. Next, pineapple juice, coconut cream and banana slices got mixed into a smooth liquid. With great care, this new substance was poured along the edges into the cocktail, creating a neat patchwork effect along the sides of the glass. With a small slice of pineapple as topping, Sherlock slid the drink over to his brother. John couldn’t stifle a snort.

While the cocktail was without a doubt very tasty, Mycroft looked utterly ridiculous just holding it in his hand. And by the appalled look had on his face, the posh git knew it, too. There was a reason guys in bespoke suits usually ordered straight, strong, old-school drinks. Everything else just look very... odd. Still, in his defence, Mycroft did pick up the glass and drank it down, face giving not much more than a small twitch of pleasure. Sherlock looked smug, leaning back against the drink cabinet behind him. John gave him an admiring nod, and tried to decide whether Sherlock had actually blushed at that or just grown hot from working.

* * *

 

“Alright you buggers! Let’s make this quick so we can all get...home.”

John’s head whipped around as he saw his new boss coming down from the office. Charts in hand, ready for action, the sudden pause in the man’s tone was even more noticeable.

“Detective Inspector! I apologize for the inconvenience,"

Slowly, the doctor felt his neck starting to hurt. But he couldn’t be blamed for snapping around again, as Mycroft sounded... off. Not patronising, not cold just... odd. All the while Sherlock looked like he just swallowed something disgusting and it was crawling its way back up at this very moment.

“Mr. Holmes, here to check on your brother again?” Lestrade recovered a bit from God only knew what and strolled over. Mycroft had stood up and now shook the offered hand almost eagerly.

“I worry about him, constantly,” the red haired man answered, heaving a long suffering sigh. It was literary the most lively he had been during the whole conversation. By far.

“Yeah, you and me both. But it’s my bloody business on the line. Well, at least he found me another bartender. Even works with him, wouldn’t you know,” Lestrade stated with a quick laugh, eyes never even leaving the other’s face. Sherlock now started twitching. ‘What the hell was going on?’ John asked himself, even though he had quite a few ideas already.

“Most intriguing,” Mycroft shared and the bartender would swear on his army background the politician had purred this sentence. For John, it was like watching a car crash. Even though one felt horrible and ashamed by doing so, it was nearly impossible to look away.

“Let me get you a drink. I see Sherlock pulled out all stops again.”

Now, to say Lestrade was blushing like a little school girl would be entirely inaccurate. Both of them were grown man who knew better than to act like foolish teenagers and had (at least in Lestrade’s case John assumed) been struck by fancy before often enough to resist. But their conversation and behaviour towards each other, well, it was by no means ordinary. The new bartender found the whole situation as it was very bizarre, but he had seen odder things happen. The army doctor had worked as a Bartender, after all.

So Sherlock and he watched Lestrade move around the bar, eagerly pouring an old-school scotch of best quality for Mycroft. As he placed the drink down, the elder Holmes’ hand was already there to pick it up, letting their hands brush for a brief moment. John wasn’t sure if _he_ wanted to blush or giggle at how both of them nearly jumped with the sudden contact. Mycroft only twitching slightly, Lestrade averting his glance and coughing as if to cover it up. God, could the two of them be any more obvious?

“Anything, I should know about, going on in the world?” Now Lestrade had taken up cleaning glasses as Mycroft took an eager swallow of his Scotch. The politician grinned, and Sherlock spluttered like an offended five year old. Still, the consulting bartender had yet to make an active interruption to the ongoing conversation. John counted that as unbelievable restraint. He had yet to deduce for whose sake, though.

“Russia is acting up a bit. You should stock up on oranges,” was Mycroft’s enigmatic response.

“My God, really?” Lestrade sounded just as gleefully baffled; a mood that earned him a very please smile from a certain ginger.

Sherlock’s patience snapped with a loud snort. But John considered further counteractions as his duty as a good employee and nearly dragged the other bartender back into storage.

* * *

“Be nice, give them space,” he muttered, and the black haired man seemed oddly compliant. Still, he sent a look of most certain death towards the bar floor. Standing close enough to deter the other bartender from rushing in, John chuckled.

“Does Lestrade always swoon over your brother like this?” he asked good-heartedly. Lestrade looked and acted like a real hard-ass most of the time, so seeing him make googly eyes at someone was a bid of a relief, really.

“Don’t remind me, I am going to be sick,” Stressing the point, Sherlock pressed his eyes closed with the balls of his hands. John felt like he had been hit by a ton of bricks. Sherlock, a homophobe? Seriously? How did the doctor always pick the worst kind of people?

“I didn’t peck you for somebody who would mind,” he pressed out through nearly clenched teeth. Sherlock had been too warp up in his theatrics to notice his instant reaction, but obviously noticed something off with the other bartender’s tone now. John could feel piercing eyes focussing, the glance as cutting as a scalpel. But he was no coward and squared his shoulders with a deliberate nod. The raised eyebrow might have been a bit much, but the doctor felt there was nothing to hide.

It only took Sherlock a few seconds to read everything. At least John figured, with the black haired man’s breath catching, eyes widening and suddenly, a short, almost pained laugh.

“I have no desire to think about my brother... in any sexual context. Or at all,” Sherlock stated, holding the doctor’s glance with meaningful intent, willing the other to understand. And John knew an explanation when he saw one.

“What are you? Five?” he chuckled, stepping closer as if to give him a playful shuffle. Yet, his hand stopped midway between the both of them, unsure of their actual closeness. He saw Sherlock visibly tense and drew back quickly.

“Because you and your brother have such an easy relationship,” Sherlock retaliated, somehow a bit more jumpy than John had thought he would be. The army doctor didn’t give a verbal answer, but giving the bartender’s gift for deduction, no words were necessary. One twitch of a mouth corner, one slightly longer blink of John’s eyes, and Sherlock was on him like a blood hound.

“...What? Why are you looking at me like that? I got something wrong. What did I get...?” Suddenly personal space was no issue at all. Sherlock leaned in, mapping every single of John’s reactions with a speed and urgency that brushed desperation. The army doctor finally took pity and stopped the tirade of questions effectively with a solid hand over the other’s mouth.

For a second, the resulting silence was deafening. It didn’t help that Sherlock’s lips kept moving along the palms of John’s hand. The brushes were maddening, but it looked like the insufferable know-it-all didn’t even realise it. John cleared his throat in hopes of sounding less distracted.

“My sibling is called Harry.” The ever moving lips against his skin stopped for a second, only to restart with a low mumble of words.

“Yes, it says so on the inscription your-”

John added a bit of pressure to his muffling hand. “Which is short for Harriet.” The sentence didn’t fail his intended impact. Sherlock gabbed behind the hand still in place, eyes opening wide and searching again. For clues, indicators or just reactions, John wasn’t sure.

“Oh..."

He was quite adorable, really. The genius looked baffled, but not as devastated as Watson had feared. More openly surprised. More intrigued than anything else.

“Sister,” John repeated his statement, grinning a bit as he felt Sherlock mentally replaying their entire interaction tonight. But already the other man seemed to grow weary, uneasy even with his new found faulty deduction. Before watching the man berate himself further, John opted for a different conversation topic. And while he took his hand from the other’s face, their close proximity remained.

“What is the deal with your brother?” John questioned not without curiosity. He knew enough about danger to spot a clear sign when he saw it, but in which way Mycroft Holmes was deadly.

“He is the most dangerous man you will ever meet. MI6, the government, ours and others...You name it, he pulls the strings.” Sherlock drawled, a big ‘bored’ tailing his description almost visibly. John just shook his head.

“Damn, your family never does things in halves, eh?”


	3. A Study in Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long wait. I don't even know if anybody is still waiting. *dusts away the cobwebs* Well, it's been... a while, hasn't it? My writing style is a bit different now. But I will not abandon this fic. I am writing it. 
> 
> This chapter would not have happened without my dear Margaret. She keeps me sane and safe and happy when nothing else will. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter 3

_221B Baker Street. Come if convenient. SH_

 

John was standing in Tesco's ready meal section when the text arrived. Today was his first night off, and the doctor planned on spending it with sorting through apartment listings and not killing Harry. In that order of urgency. The man blinked at the tiny screen of his phone. He didn't remembergiving Sherlock his number. But then again, John wasn't surprised the genius had gotten it anyway. With Holmes the Older acting as The British Government, even if they weren’t on the best of terms, there was probably very little the bartender couldn’t acquire if he so chose. While John tried to decide on an answer, there was another buzz.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

 

The bartender chuckled quietly, his answer decided in a heartbeat. There wasn’t really much to it, anyway. John would lie saying he minded spending his free night with Sherlock. Chaos seemed to flock towards the lanky man with a vengeance. If nothing else, John could be sure a meeting with his colleague would be eventful.

 

Besides, there was something he wanted to discuss with Sherlock anyway. His therapist had nagged him to start a blog. In her opinion, writing down his everyday life occurrences would ground him in his new civilian life and serve as a catalyser for new activities. In John’s humble opinion, that was rubbish. Ever the good patient, he had still done as she asked, even though there was not a single blog entry published yet. John hadn’t planned on upsetting the status quo.

 

But Lestrade had shared his new publicity idea during their last shift. John was to write about his bartending experience, pulling undecided customers through the door via internet marketing. Apparently, Lestrade had asked the same of Sherlock and Anderson a while ago, both with different but equally catastrophic results. The bar owner had not gone into detail, but John understood dinosaurs and the scientific experiments concerning vomiting were involved.

 

Still, Lestrade had one last hope, which was apparently called John Watson and not averse to the idea in general. After talking it over, they decided to have John write about his job on his own blog. Making sure to drop the name of the bar plus directions for everybody visible to see, it would hopefully make people curious.

 

There was no doubt in John’s mind about whom he would be writing, and Lestrade had given him a knowing smile that said as much. However, he wanted to make sure Sherlock was ok with the whole thing before blogging about the “world’s only consulting bartender”.

 

* * *

 

 

Arriving at Baker Street, John watched Sherlock walk towards him, long coat bellowing behind him  and curls in disarray as always. John had strong opinions about ‘the coat’. It was, without a doubt, a fine piece of clothing, designer and good winter wear. However, it hid ‘the bum’ away from John’s general view and in extension made Sherlock look even taller, both good enough reasons to at least regard the garment with suspicion.

 

Shaking Sherlock’s hand, John felt his mood lift despite the rainy weather and hectic traffic. There was something about this ball of nervous six foot tall ball of energy. They were maybe a few minutes down the road from their workplace. Baker Street 221b seemed to be a relatively old building, but central London with good public transport connections.

 

“Your place?” John inquired, but the question seemed redundant as Sherlock unlocked the door.

 

“Of course it is. Do keep up.” The genius was already halfway up the stairs when he looked back, raising an eyebrow at John who was struggling with the steps, his cane, and not getting frustrated over both. Stubbornly, the army veteran didn't look up until he reached the top with a quiet huff.

 

When John finally entered the flat, his first thought was the following: “God, is this a meth-lab?” He was standing in something that could pass for a living room, save for the flasks, beakers, test tubes, Bunsen burners, and basically everything an illegal lab of any kind could dream of. Or so the bartender imagined.

 

“Oh dear, having a bit of trouble with the leg, don’t you? Sit down in that chair over there. It hasn't been used in Sherlock’s experiments in at least a week.” John whipped around at the sudden female voice, nearly colliding with a woman in her 40s, dressed in a long skirt, blouse and sweater, all spotting a slightly alarming amount of flower prints.

 

“Ms. Hudson, Dr. Watson here is used to standing. Now, where did you hide my skull?” Sherlock was moving around at his normal pace, arms and coat flaring. They were struggling to keep up with their master's rapid thoughts. Keeping an eye on the strange woman, John gave the room a second look. Really, the place would be quite nice: Fireplace, nice chairs, a sofa... However, the supposed meth lab ruined its homey atmosphere.

 

“Oh, a doctor, dear? Well, Sherlock has done quite well for himself, then. Really lovely. Women in my age don’t mind a doctor close by, you know. Silly old hip of mine is acting up every now and again.” The barkeeper was polite enough to nod along, still trying to make sense of it all. Was that a knife fixing bills on the counter? Did Sherlock paint that bored Smiley face over his wallpaper?

 

“So you are his…?” John finally asked, trying to start with the smaller confusions. By now, Sherlock had vanished into his room, and the army doctor felt more than a bit irked. The genius had not even offered him a cuppa. He resisted the urge to put the cattle on himself. Besides, John wasn't too sure yet if he wanted to have his fingerprints anywhere around here.

 

“Housekeeper!”

 

“Landlady!”

 

It seemed the job description was still up for debate between the two of them.  Still, at least Sherlock emerged from his room, wearing a fancier version of his usual Bartending attire. He only spared him one look, before fussing over a few conical flasks with slowly dripping liquid.

 

“Ms. Hudson would you kindly assure John that I am not running a meth lab out of this flat?” he drawled, making John look down in guilt.

 

“I didn’t…” Trust Sherlock to be as blunt as could be.

 

“Yes, you did. An unsurprisingly wrong deduction born from pure visuals, ignored clues and paranoia. Don’t worry, it's perfectly common.” John snorted at his deadpan tone, but couldn't help a small smile at Sherlock being... well... himself. Dismissive to the bone, but at the same time displaying passion much like a 5 year old chasing bugs. Before his thought process could get any more gooey, the landlady/housekeeper put in her two pennies worth.

 

“Sherlock, you should have cleaned up a bit before bringing him home. Don’t mind him, dear, he is just experimenting a bit with wine and beer. Well, and harder liquor, too,” Ms. Hudson helpfully offered, but John's relief only lasted a few

moments before her other words sank in. 'bringing him home'... God, was this lovely old lady implying...?

 

“I… am not…”, John was quick to deny, casting Sherlock a searching glance over the rows of glass tubes. The consulting bartender only gave him a short look, eyes unreadable, before going back to the beakers.

 

“I am creating perfect brands of alcoholic fluids,” said the pouting 5 year old trapped in a grown man's body.

 

“Well, the wine still needs a bit of work. And do remember to care for the barrels in 221C, they are starting to creak.” John gave her a warm goodbye as she left him with a highly irritated bartender turned ... moonshiner? The man didn't even acknowledge Mrs... Hudson leaving, but simply muttered to himself. John caught something about picky wives of relabeling sommeliers, and decided disregard the matter.

 

"So, this is a ..." he looked around, clearly searching for a diplomatic adjective."Interesting place. But... why did you want me to come?" Sherlock looked over at him, and for a moment, he looked unsure. John could feel a new surge of excitement trickle down his veins. It would be something illegal. Or dangerous. Or both. John couldn't wait!

 

"I was asked to tend bar at a Japanese wedding reception," Sherlock answered. "And I could use a second descent and less-irritating barman there."

 

John stared at him, blinking in time with the thoughts firing through his brain. "You... tending bar, somewhere besides Baker Street?" he asked with evident disbelief. "I have seen you turn down that cooperate bloke's shareholder party-"

 

"Boring!"

 

The doctor shook his head. "That fancy upper class club with the massive salary?"

 

"Tedious and owned by my brother."

 

John grinned. "Greg wanted you to do a football pub-night."

 

"Boring. They only order beer, and all one has to do is switch them to non-alcoholic once they get tedious."

 

Now the ex-soldier couldn't help but laugh. "So what makes this different, then?"

 

The dark haired bartender looked gleeful. A frightening sight to those who knew what usually warranted such an expression on his face. "I received an e-mail a week ago. Japanese women. Tediously polite. Used six paragraphs to express the content of two sentences."

 

John snorted. "And what would those two sentences have been?"

 

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting bartender grinned widely. "My fiancé and I are from two rivalling Yakuza clans. Reception Bartender needed."

 

                                                       

* * *

 

 

Needless to say, John was in a bartender uniform and ready to go in less time than it took Sherlock to fully explain their game plan. Akiko and Takahiro apparently came to London to elope, leaving Japan behind for good. Sadly, their families didn't get the memo. Both flew in, and were determined to attend the wedding and the reception. The couple were not successors in line, so in theory, they were allowed to leave the "family business". If they left Japan, too. But first, everybody needed to survive the wedding reception, without a new war between the gangs. Trust Sherlock to pick only the most insane, dangerous, and potentially explosive venues for extra work.

 

John mulled the situation over in his head, absent-mindedly tugging on the cuffs of his former bartender uniform. The cut was quite... slim, and he tried not the think about how short he would look next to Sherlock Beanpole Holmes. Well, at least their trousers did just about everything heavenly possible for Sherlock's bum. If he got knifed today, it would be with a nice view as last memory.

 

They arrived at a Bar that famed itself with Europe's highest and biggest rooftop garden. The bloodbath location will be pretty, John thought, because gallows humour reminded him to stay alert. But really, the forensic photographs were going to be amazing.

 

"If you could stop your useless mental commentary for a moment, we have service wheels to stock!" John shook his head with a grin, and walked behind the bar to take his place beside Sherlock. Surveying his stock, he slapped the other's arm, hard. "You stole two of my bottles. Did their Pouring caps have a shape that fit your bottle index?" he accused the other, demanding retribution with an extended, waiting hand.

 

Sherlock sniffed unhappily, but passed two bottles over. "I am used to working alone," he said,  as if to fully and entirely justify his behaviour.

 

"Bottle stealer," John teased, and got to do the rest of the preparations next to the Great Pouting Detective. Their preparations went along marvellously, but keeping the bar stocked wouldn't be the key issue tonight. "How are we going to do this, Sherlock? Those guys will be more than happy to pull knives on each other," the ex-doctor asked, clearly at a loss.

 

Sherlock scoffed and made short work of whipping the bar top down with a towel. "We will monitor their drink intake, give them mostly cocktails with fruits or sweeteners. They are ours to control, as long as we monitor them, they will remain civil."

 

An hour later, Sherlock ate his words.

 

                                                 

* * *

 

 

"We will monitor them, you said," John hissed and ducked for another bottle of vodka to put in his speed-well. "They will take what they get from us, you said," he sneered, quietly, as he filled 4 glasses with ice. "We will not get murdered, you said," he concluded, and felt the urge to giggle. Two knives stuck in their bar-top thus far. And neither Sherlock nor the other guests seemed too bothered with it.

 

Truth to be told, it wasn't even Sherlock's fault. Not really. Not beyond dragging them here in the first place. Because the bride and groom were supposed to talk their wedding party into arriving via carriage. Instead, both "families" had opted to best the city traffic in rented stretch limousines. As a result, everybody  turned up with enough alcohol in them to be beyond the clever control of John's "Three Continent Watsons" or Sherlock's fruit cocktails. Bugger that!

 

"What are we doing now?" John asked, as he tried to judge the people gathering around them. God, he had been around some weird folk during his army days, but these guys took the cake. Funnily enough, most women looked more menacing to John than their male company. Where the men's tattooed skin was mostly covered by custom tailored suits, the women portrayed their back pieces proudly in dramatically draped designer gowns. Only the closest family members wore black kimono.

 

As Sherlock didn't seem inclined to answer, John's eyes drifted across the room again. Until they hit a group of young men... squatting.

 

"Oi? Are those guys... too buggered to stand?" he groaned, and finally, the other bartender looked up, too. Sherlock snorted, giving John nothing but a small grin for his troubles.

 

"That's just the way they sit. Highly relaxing, if you can crouch down with your heels on the floor." God, one of these days John would stop finding that boyish grin on Sherlock's face utterly snoggable. Well, it wasn't going to be any time from now until forever, probably. But before that thought process could go anywhere near its dangerous conclusion, Sherlock's smile slipped from his face.

 

"We are approximately ten minutes away from the final escalation," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and suddenly started stacking fruits on the bar-top. "Plan B!" he announced with a flourish of hand motions.

 

John found himself pealing kiwi's and preparing bananas. He still tried to understand why they were now, right now, so close to escalation. "What are we doing?" he muttered, as the first curious reception guests started to crowd around the bar. Sherlock didn't answer him and pulled out the mixer. Instead, he motioned the two newlyweds over. "You are going to hand these out to every single guest at the reception older than 14. Every single person in this room, understand?" he ordered, and started pushing out drinks by stags of six at a time. The army doctor still tried to understand what those drinks were going to do besides getting everybody more drunk. Raspberries, Kiwi and Banana mixed with a bit of vodka and soda, John couldn't find a miracle mixture in that.

 

But before he could ask any more questions, Sherlock cursed under his breath and leaped across the bar. Before the ex-soldier could even think, he was hot on the mad man’s heels, grabbing a few glasses of pink cocktail for good measure. As soon as they were a few feet away from the bar, John saw what had Sherlock so rattled. Across the room, two older man were having that sort of polite conversation, that internationally, interculturally just meant bad news. They had two younger men each by their side, and it looked like somebody was about ready to throw the first punch. Sherlock swooped in, right between  them, and pressed glasses of pink drinks into their hands.

 

“With recommendation of the groom and bride. They sincerely hope their gesture of kindness and gratitude will be well received,” the bartender said with a deep bow, that even John though was a bit much. Both of the elder men took the glasses, and John quickly supplied the other’s with their share. The men looked at their new drinks, then at the bartenders, and back. Sherlock grinned, widely. “Well, do enjoy the rest of the reception!” he concluded, before dragging John off after him.

 

The rest of the reception was even more bizarre for John to observe than the beginning had been. They were supplying everybody and their frowning grandmother with pink cocktails, and watched the men disapprovingly eye their glasses every now and again. “What did you put in their drinks?” John finally asked, as everything started to quieten down. They were still pushing out a few more drinks, but guests started to leave, and Sherlock had even started to clean glasses.

 

“Oh John, don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t put anything into their drinks you didn’t put in them,” Sherlock answered, but there was a knowing glint in his eyes. The bartender grinned, but by now John knew his expression was as much self-satisfied as honestly-happy. And Sherlock didn’t disappoint. A few moments later, her sat down the freshly dried glass and continued. “Pink! It is all about the pink! The Kiwi and Bananas are just an extra, but the pink!” John could feel himself grinning back. This was madness. A mad man, shouting out a colour as if it was his saving grace.

 

John took him in: His hair unraveled and even more in disarray than normal. His eyes gleaming, the green specks in them a vibrant as the sun shining through coloured glass. His slim cut uniform, rolled up sleeves and specks of pink on the white shirt underneath. ‘I am going to kiss him tonight’ John thought, and nearly choked on his breath.

 

“Well, tell me then. Why pink?” he asked, grinning widely still.

 

“Aggression, John. Aggression! Dark colours are perceived as strong, aggressive even. Pink on the other hand, is deescalating. The holder of the drink is less likely to become aggressive, and is also seen as less aggressive from the outside. In short…” he winked and picked up a pink drink himself. “You are statistically more likely to get punched by somebody holding a beer bottle than a pink cocktail.”

 

John burst out laughing a moment later. “That… that was fantastic. Mad, but brilliant!” he exclaimed, and Sherlock looked like he was beaming with pride.

 

“Really?” he asked, more bashful than anybody would have believed.

 

“Course…” Was it just him, or did they seem closer than before?

 

“Well, it was rather clever,” Sherlock agreed. They were definitely closer now. Closer than friendship could justify, really. Sherlock looked down at him, cheeks red with exhaustion. John found he had to tip his head back to look Sherlock in the eyes.

 

“And mad, don’t forget mad.” God, they were flirting, weren’t they? John was definitely flirting, and Sherlock… well, he was at least answering in kind.

 

“Well… better than boring,” Sherlock muttered, and he seemed to have a hard time keeping his arms still. If John wouldn’t know better, he would say the bartender was nervous.

 

“I don’t think anything you’re up to could ever be boring!” John grinned. He sat his hand down on the bar top, trying to make getting even closer justifiable. It really wasn’t. But who would judge him.

 

“Of course not!” Sherlock looked deeply offended by the very thought, and that was just about the last straw.

 

John shook his head, breathed deeply, and pulled Sherlock down by the front of his bartending uniform, until their lips finally, finally connected. ‘There you go,’ John thought, distractedly, as Sherlock’s noise of surprise was swallowed between their lips. ‘Knew I would kiss him,” his brain helpfully supplied. That was about all he managed to think, as their lips slowly brushed against each other. John’s eyes closed in a deep sigh, and he pulled Sherlock down as close as the stubborn beanpole would let him. And oh Sherlock let him.

 

The bartender seemed to melt against him, which was a whole lot of boney weight suddenly entrusted into his care. But there was little else John could imagine carrying so gladly. He grounded himself against the bar behind him for stability, and pushed his hands deep into Sherlock’s hair. God, that was glorious. As his lips slowly moved against the other’s, his fingers tugged on dark, soft curls until his bartending genius’ head was surrounded by a black storm cloud of hair. Sherlock breathed against his lips. He breathed and sighed and it seemed he was still trying to get his bearings. Just as John was ready to pull back and give him some time to wrap his big brain around the issue, Sherlock’s arms wrapped themselves around John’s waist as if he would drown without the hold. And then, and then, as John heard the angels sing and the suspicious noises of quite a few camera phones, Sherlock opened his mouth to kiss back.

 

Things got a bit fuzzy for John from here on out. And who could judge him? He felt Sherlock’s teeth against his lower lip, tugging, toying, teasing. He felt the other’s tongue right after, smoothing, sliding, searing. There wasn’t much for John to do, but open his mouth and admit defeat. His moan got swallowed between their lips, and he gripped Sherlock’s curls even tighter. The bartender kissed like nobody else John had ever kissed. Sometimes, it was clumsy but curious, as if he was doing it for the first time. Then again, it was adventurous and skilful, licking the roof of his mouth with a precision probably outlawed in at least 20 countries. John tried to give back as good as he got, but found himself utterly distracted by Sherlock’s hair and his breath and the small noises of genuine surprised happiness, whenever the mad genius  found another thing that made John melt. Or moan. Or giggle. Finally, when John was about to throw his dignity in the wind and rut against Sherlock like the bloody teenager he appeared to be, Sherlock drew back. Not far. Not really. But at least instead of their lips, now their foreheads were connected over panted breaths.

 

“That was…” Sherlock muttered in a low, breathless rumble, eyes closed and fingers still gripping tightly on John’s hips.

 

“Yeah…” he had to agree. Because… yeah. It definitely was.

 

“We should…” the bartender swallowed, and John had to look away as he licked his lips.

 

“Clean up? Get out of here? Go back to your mad moonshiner lab?” John asked, and giggled. God, the other looked … well-snogged. Freshly, well-snogged and ready for more.

 

“I consider myself a  vintner. And a brewing specialist,” Sherlock answered, and he tried very hard to look mad. Or disgruntled. Or anything other than well-snogged and deeply satisfied. He failed.

 

“Of course you do,” John chuckled, and gave the other a soft kiss on the nose. That was quite enough mushy behaviour for him. But it had to be done. Sherlock couldn’t get away with that wrinkle on his forehead and swollen lips without some type of nose kiss. It just couldn’t be done.

 

"I am terribly sorry to interrupt." The two bartenders both snapped their heads to the right, looking at the newlywed couple. John felt his ears burning, as he remembered where they were. Sherlock seemed more inconvenienced by the disturbance than embarrassed.

 

"Oh ... yes... hm.... Congratulations again. The reception was... it seemed to be... over?" John tried to make conversation. Sherlock looked about ready to do something highly offensive. It would probably be a bit not good to shout at the guests of honour. And their employers, too.

 

"Yes,... yes. We can't thank you enough for your services. We are... very grateful for your help. We hope you will accept this as a gift of gratitude." John blinked, as the both were presented with matching flat boxes wrapped in painted silk cloths.

 

"Oh, we really couldn't. This is too much..." John tried to respectfully decline, but Sherlock had already grabbed one of the boxes, shaking them twice.

 

"Sapporo custom made chopsticks. Good. These are actually useful. Take them, John. You will never be able to afford better," he pronounced, and thus John found himself with a package of priceless chopsticks and a mad bartender, while they tried sorting out the rest of the bar.

 

“I know what I am going to call it!” John exclaimed a few minutes later. They were in their final clean-up and restock, as most of the guests had already cleared out. Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. It was his questioning eyebrow. Not to be confused with his annoyed eyebrow. Or the frustrated one. “Greg asked me to write up our bartending gigs as advertisement for the bar. And I know what I am going to call tonight!”

 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, and “accidentally” hit him with a wet bar-towel. “Well? Whatever prosaic masterpiece are you going to bestow on your ‘countless’ readers?” he drawled.

  
John just grinned. “A study in Pink!”


End file.
